Mirage Springs (Home Sweet Home)
by this kills the man
Summary: The protagonist: a young Gadget the Wolf. The setting: a time when things were... simpler. (Infidget, except it's that shared Old Friends AU I have with theashemarie/hikareh. May or may not use this as a collection dump. We'll see.)
1. Movement (Growth)

**yo yo yo what up im back at it again and im finally making a proper collection of this au so that yall aren't left in the dust**

 **ashe n i have written and discussed all kinds a stuff for this. these are just some things ive written. there could very well only be one chapter to this but! i dunno! its nice to have a designated Place for pre-war writes. I think I've only posted during- and post-war so far? Yeah I think so.**

 **anyways heres wonderwall be sure to like comment and subscribe to my youtube c**

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Gadget doesn't dream about his _father_ per say, but a few months out from the accident and the funeral and the _beginning_ of it all his dreams get… unpleasant.

Always traumatic. Disaster, tragedy, bodily harm, his mother, trapped, his own self, broken and immobile. He wakes up with a prancing heart and pains in his neck, like his head was moving but there was resistance, a pillow in the way. Advil never really helps. He pretends it does.

One night, he spends all of two hours asleep, the second dreaming of a feral dog tearing a cat into two with its teeth. He hears the procession of the cat's screeches so vividly, struggles with the molasses around his bones as he looks around at the others in the room, wondering if he should look outside, out the window at the sources of the screeches and the dying. Eventually, he does, and finds Finn, his best friend, one he hasn't seen in person for years and only in grainy jpegs on his monitor, wrestling the wrangled parts of the cat from the bared fangs of the dog, horror pulling at his features in strange, uncomfortable shapes.

Gadget wakes up ten minutes before his alarm. He doesn't shut it off.

It rings a few times, the peaceful, lighthearted marimbas that normally fill Gadget with destructive intent only reminding him of the hours ahead of him, hours undoubtedly to be filled with migraines and a putrid sickness in his stomach.

He stumbles down the stairs with Frankenstein feet, legs that don't really fit him and feel short and stubby and long and gangly at the same time, legs that stick out from his body at odd angles, bones that grew too fast and in the wrong places. He sees his mom, Helen, in the kitchen, still and focused on the kitchen counter (empty) and he decides to tell her.

"We need to move."

It's the rain outside that sets him off. He sees it in the window behind his mother, feels it in his bones like little hammers against his marrow, chipping away bits and pieces with every impact until there's nothing left to support his innards and his flesh. Rain, obscuring, blinding, slippery. Too wet and too slick for city tires. Too obtrusive to the eyes of a crowded interstate. Too enticing for accidents, for metal cars with disgustingly fragile bodies inside of them.

Gadget wants to get as far from the rain as possible.

Helen maintains that obsessive, hollow gaze at the counter tile, and only nods, mechanical and noncomprehensive. Gadget hums, accepting it for now and deciding that, maybe later, he'll ask again, when she's had food and a good night's rest. He knows she didn't sleep last night. Her pacing kept him up. He wanted to join her.

Ultimately, it's a matter of waiting for the house market to open and for Gadget to finish eighth grade, though perhaps not quite in that order. The where isn't an issue, because there's only one place that holds the familiarity they desperately need while also giving them needed, necessary space, and the "how" of the matter is settled with his father's now liquidated assets. So, July.

There's the sad, forlorn, empty husk of Gadget that feels close to nothing about this, but then there's this small, hopeful spark, created and fueled by a face he hasn't seen properly since a distant, warm but entirely too fuzzy childhood, connected now only to a username tattooed to the back of his brain. Moving has one big, tangible perk, one that's not centered on recovery, on death, on rain, and he didn't realize it was there until he was halfway through listening to his mother speak with the realter on the phone.

A familiar face. A friend.

The revelation only reminds him of the loneliness, but. But. That spark shines a little brighter.

In May, they finalize the lease for the new homeowners and work on packing (there's not much, and Helen has a distressing vastness to her knowledge on quick moving shortcuts; Gadget knows why and has never asked for details. Helen never gave them. It's better that way).

Gadget's quick to hop on his laptop as soon as he gets off packing duty, perched on the fat windowsill he used to furnish with pillows and blankets to make a makeshift couch (there's a word for this sort of window-couch, he knows, but he can't quite reach back in the recesses of his brain to find it, nor can he find the will or energy to care).

AIM is open and chippering happily when he opens the lid. As soon as the window pops up, he sees Finn's gargantuan mix of x's and numerals waiting eagerly for his return.

Gadget's fingers fly over the keyboard. _Mmmmmmmhenlo! finally got the lease signed. were packing right now_

He receives immediate whiplash as Finn spams a long, dark block of capital A's.

Gadget types back, quick and a bit snippy: _please don't break ur a key ull give ur mom a scare_

Finn, after hesitation and a guilt that seeps straight into the texts and out of Gadget's monitor, responds with a single, solemn, _h_.

 _thank u,_ Gadget types.

They launch into quick, idle chatter after that, slowly morphing into something more thoughtful as the hours wear on until Finn sends, after a brief pause: _u think ull recognize me?_

Gadget's chest collapses slightly, not quite a sigh but a hefty release of breath regardless. _I mean. ive seen pictures but. I dunno_

When a quiet, hesitant ' _we'll see'_ flashes across the screen, Gadget flinches, only to force his eyes closed and away from the affronting text. He breathes, in, out, shallow but to a slow count of ten.

It's just Finn, unsure and insecure and afraid. He's always worried, Gadget tells himself. He's paranoid.

But there's a brief image in his mind of himself looking out at the swarm of bodies in the airport, lugging a suitcase of clothes behind him and a ticket, punched, in his hand, with no one there to greet him.

He doesn't know if he could handle that.

He doesn't want to find out.

July. Humid in the north, but bone-dry in the south. That should've made it better. It didn't.

Gadget forgot just how _heavy_ the sun felt in Mirage Springs, and in that brief stretch between plane cabin and port entrance, he's reminded with vivid, visceral clarity just how much he loathes the heat, even if it doesn't stick to his neck like it did back home. At least, at home, he didn't worry about blistered feet and heat stroke.

He tries not to take it as a bad omen, as a sign that this was a bad idea, but it sits in the pit of his stomach and grows fetid.

It doesn't help that he aches, that his knees creak after stuck in artificial, harsh angles for so long, that his ears pop every now and then without warning because the plane was high but the mountains and trees up north were even higher.

He's hurt, and tired, and nervous, and overall in a sour, worn mood (not helped by the long minutes spent in one security check after another), and there's little pomp and circumstance when he's finally out in the open with his meagre luggage behind him and plane ticket crinkled between his fingers.

Then, he sees Finn. Or, rather, his mother Helen sees Finn, and he only sees Finn after she puts a knowing hand on Gadget's shoulder and says, "I'll go back for the rest of the luggage."

And she leaves, and it's just him, and Finn (and an entire airport, but that's unimportant).

Gadget doesn't know why he ever worried; Finn sticks out like a sore thumb. Not in stature, the shrinking violet he was, but definitely in the black everything and the thick, sturdy, too-hot boots and the long, long, chaos it was so long hair and really, even without all of that, his scar made him look like some rogue mercenary lost in a swarm of unfittingly normal people, loose from the trail of his target and aimless in his search for a way back on.

There's no warning before Gadget is, in every sense of the word, swept off his feet.

 _"You're back!"_ Finn booms with every ounce of air in his lungs, voice cracking like an egg on a floor but pitch reaching an unnerving deepness for a teen his age. Gadget's overwhelmed, with all the earth-shaking timber of Finn's voice roaring _right next_ to his ear and the room spinning around him and the lack of ground under his feet and, wait, no ground, wait…

Gadget's placed firmly on his feet mere seconds after the hug-and-spin that was needlessly thrust upon him (though he'd later reflect that, perhaps in other circumstances, maybe he would actually enjoy it, just a little), and his first words are not heartfelt, or gentle, but just as booming as Finn and with alarming distress: _"You're tall!"_

This is just about shouted into Finn's chest (Gadget is still being hugged (and is hugging back, undeniably)) and Finn only knows he said anything over the rumble of the surrounding airport because of the vibrations Gadget's creaking tenor voice leaves in his chest (proximity, not power).

Finn pulls back, troubled by the tone and not sure what to make of it, simply responding with a dazed, panicked, "Yeah?" that cracks at the end.

His panic is furthered, if only for a moment, by Gadget's subsequent movements of hand comparison, that funny maneuver where the hand, palm down, is dragged from the top of one's head straight across to the other person, and Gadget lets out a distraught squeak when his hand bumps against the center of Finn's sternum.

 _"What?!"_ This is Gadget speaking, or rather borderline hollering, as he stares exasperated at Finn. Then, just like that, he deflates. His head hangs. It's a pity party for one.

Finn stands there, completely dumbfounded, watching his friend stew in his own misery, then walks forward to pat his back with the finesse expected from a young, awkward teenage boy. "There, there," Finn soothes.

He receives a small, saddened whimper in response.

Later, when Gadget's home and nestled in a neat corner of his bare room, it dawns on him that Finn's boots had heels.

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 **leave a review i beg of u my crops are dying**


	2. Late Night (Sleep Tight)

**HUGE thanks to Hikareh for editing this chapter!** She's always a huge help in my writing process but she did a lot of work this time around proofing and editing and pointing out issues I didn't even realize were there. I'm super thankful that she helped as much as she did. Please check out her stuff if you haven't already; we share this au, and she has some good good fics written for it.

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Two in the morning: Finn is in a bedroom he doesn't own and a house only large enough to breathe in, resting after a day of moving boxes with Gadget and his mother, Helen. There's a light draft, and despite its warmth he shivers, turns onto his side, and he curls into the mat Helen kindly rolled out for him by Gadget's bed (a bare mattress with the frame still picked apart and piled away in the truck). Sleep comes and goes, fits and spurts. Now he lies awake, and his hands fist and unfurl the fabric in front of him as he lies on his side, hairs on the back of his neck prickling, stomach sick and running in loops, stirring, simmering. In the furthest corner of his mind, he considers the tiny but sinister voice telling him he's not doing enough for Gadget, and his fingers curl a little too tight. The sheets between them crease.

The fact of the matter is this: Gadget hurts, but Finn isn't a healer. He's useless in the presence of pain, sick to his stomach whenever he sees Gadget flinch or jump from sudden noises, wincing when Gadget limps a little on his way to the moving truck. Finn can offer to help move, and to stay for dinner, and then also to stay for the night so that he can help again tomorrow, but he feels awkward and ill-equipped to offer real comfort, the kind of comfort that requires a finesse with words and good people-reading skills. Finn has neither; it shows in how he offers apologies and condolences like little band-aids for the deep, bleeding gashes in Gadget and Helen's hearts.

Finn, in his stewing and stirring, fails to notice that, up on the mattress next to him, there's no Gadget under the lone comforter bunched up in the middle.

Earlier, at the airport, Finn knew the following: that Gadget's dad died, that it was a car accident, that Gadget was in said car accident, that the paramedics were only able to salvage Gadget's body whereas his father's was beyond recognition, lost somewhere in smoke and crushed metal and other flammables. This information occupied some small, shielded part of his mind as he met Gadget at the airport, but during their jovial greetings it didn't _click_ because Gadget looked just fine. Normal, even.

When Gadget's mom, Helen, mentioned leaving for the house, that's when it clicked, because Gadget paled, and Finn remembered the many mentions of cars and accidents and _memories_ during their months of chats.

The procession out started to feel more for that of a funeral than of a celebration, Gadget clutching first to Finn's side and then switching his death grip from waist to sleeve for the ride home, white-knuckled and motionless and quiet. Finn wanted nothing more than to tell Gadget he would be okay, that he was safe and that nothing would hurt him that way ever again, that he was far away from what happened, but that wasn't really true, and he knew that was a promise out of his power to fulfill, so he just gave Gadget his hand to hold and his shoulder to curl into. When they arrived home, Gadget was the first one out.

Finn felt guilty for enjoying Gadget's company with this new, intimate proximity to his pain. In person there was eye contact, accidental glimpses of the bruising along Gadget's forearm from sore, healing bones, exposure to the sounds of wheezing and coughing from Gadget's gunk-filled lungs. Finn couldn't avoid the truth the way he had online, and the guilt of even wishing he could left a sick feeling in his stomach.

Later, when unloading the truck, Helen handed Gadget the lighter boxes, leaving Finn with the boxes marked FRAGILE in big, jagged letters. Most times Gadget limped descending the truck ramp, even with the light load, and after the one time when he tripped a little as he shuffled out of sight, Finn asked Helen how long he had been off crutches, hefting up a box of his own and too occupied with concern to do much more than that.

She answered, simply, "A month."

Finn's eyes widened, the grip around his box loosening for a moment. "A month?! He shouldn't be carrying anything right now!"

Gadget must have overheard them, because he interjected, "No, I'm fine!" from the garage, hidden somewhere behind the stack of boxes Finn piled by the left of the entrance.

Finn sighed, realizing that Gadget must have begged his mom to let him to help, and muttered a quick, quiet, "Excuse me," to Helen before setting his box down and hopping off the edge of the truck, forgoing the ramp altogether.

He peered around the stack (the one Finn made) only to see Gadget on his tip toes, struggling to heft his box onto the only empty shelf left (the top one Finn was supposed to fill).

"Gadget," Finn said, more of a sigh than a statement, and the defeat in his voice rolled Gadget's shoulders forward, forced the box in his hands down and his heels back onto the floor.

"Sorry," Gadget said, and he shuffled away, back to the truck to grab another of the light boxes from his mother. He left Finn alone with the garage and the boxes.

The whole situation reminded Finn of years past when Gadget would clean his bedroom spotless, always working when he was anxious, scrambling for some menial task or chore to occupy himself. He must have been desperate, asking to help move when the muscles in his leg still struggled under his own weight. Finn didn't know what places Gadget's mind would go to if he couldn't work, but Finn thought it was better that way, not to know, because if he did he might have felt more helpless on what to do, on how to approach Gadget and his hurting, and it would drive him mad.

Finn walked over, stepping over the cables of lawnmowers and extension cords to get to the box Gadget set down, and he plucked it up. He slid it onto the top shelf with ease; it wasn't that high to begin with. His brain muttered, quiet, low, _Gadget could have done this before_ , but Finn swatted the words away. No point dwelling on _before_ when it was long, distant, hidden behind limping legs and wheezing lungs.

Later (now), in the dead of morning, Finn doesn't notice Gadget's absence. He's alerted instead by the smell of food, wafting in from the door Finn cracked earlier for cross ventilation.

It's weak at first, just enough to tickle Finn's nose but not enough to rouse him from the half-sleep he fell into about an hour ago (three, sharp, to the sound of cicadas and rustling grass just outside the window). When another ten minutes pass, and an unfortunate sneeze rips out of Finn's throat and himself upright, straight out of sleep, then, _then_ he smells the food, something savory and hot, and he isn't sure what to make of it aside from that it makes him an inappropriate and unwanted amount of hungry.

 _Why now?_ He asks himself, plucking each limb out of the blankets one at a time with a fragility expected of a sleepless, sore body. _Who's even up this late?_

There aren't any stairs in this house, only a long hallway that leads out into a living room and a kitchen right behind it. It throws off Finn's half-asleep muscles, Finn stumbling when his feet hit more of the long flat, hardwood instead of steps. At least the edge of the wall is there, the end of the divide between hallway and living space; he can grab onto that to right himself, eyes downcast to his feet so that he can keep track of where they are.

Looking down doesn't help much, his toes multiplying and dividing and swimming in and out of focus, sending his empty, yearning stomach into loops. Desperate for reprieve, Finn looks up from his feet, only to see two familiar tawny irises staring right back at him.

Gadget. In the kitchen. Making Bacon.

Finn can't reconcile these three facts, not together, not this early, so he just stares.

It quickly becomes stalemate: Finn, still in yesterday's clothes, creased in odd places, eyes with sleep in them, hair in knots and swept all over the place; Gadget, stationed in the kitchen, eyes torn from their bleary stare at the stove. Neither budge.

The absurdity of the scene stuns Finn into silence, bacon and stove and too-small apron and wild eyes and all, every bit of it. He can't think of anything to say other than, "Why?"

Gadget doesn't even answer properly, only saying, "Hungry," with an urgency that frightens Finn and, after slapping a strip onto a hot pan, asking, "Want some?"

"Yeah," Finn replies, too dumbstruck to say anything else.

The smell pulls Finn forward with a dramatic, bone-crushing gravity, and soon he stands by Gadget's side, handing him strips and eventually the spatula left forgotten on the opposite counter. All transpire with no words, just gentle breath and a slight wheeze from Gadget's poor, straining lungs.

Finn watches the tremble in Gadget's hands with a wary eye. "Did you sleep?" He asks.

Gadget keeps his gaze trained on the bacon. "Three hours."

"More than me," Finn replies, envious, thinking back to his breathing exercises and burning muscles. "Why?"

The air around them freezes, ice cold despite the warmth of the desert air and of the pan. Time starts again when Gadget flips the bacon, two strips at a time, slaps and sizzles from the fat smacking against their eardrums. "Bad dream."

Finn hums. "Wanna talk?"

The last strip falls a little harder than needed, flipped callously and splashing bits of grease off of the pan. "It's dumb."

"Dreams are dumb," Finn replies simply. "Talking helps."

The sizzling of the fat drums against the walls, filling the room with incessant, consuming sound. Gadget edges around Finn to a cupboard on their right, flipping open the panel for paper plates. "Later. Bacon first."

Finn watches, wordless, as Gadget piles the bacon onto a plate, then hands him more strips from the mountain of bacon in front of him when the pan is empty.

So far, most of the boxes are in the garage, and furniture in the truck, so Gadget and Finn can only seat themselves at the card table unfolded in the center of the living room. By this point it's five, and the first, barest rays of sunshine tint the sky a low, foggy grey instead of black. They eat in silence.

Finn tries to thinking of how to approach the elephant in the room—the fact that Gadget's dark circles look deep enough to hide in, that he moves like his bones might shatter if he's bumped the wrong way, that Finn, upon further reflection, doesn't even remember Gadget coming back to the bedroom—but after three strips eaten and an uncountable swarm still on the plate between them, Finn only manages, dumbly, "Taste good?"

 _Of course, it tastes good_ ,Finn scolds himself. _Who asks if bacon tastes good?_

Gadget is caught off guard, mouth stuffed with pork product and in no position to chew and swallow; his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk's.

Finn, realizing his folly, mutters a soft, "Oh." Then, "Bad timing."

A moment passes. Gadget chews and swallows, Finn grabs some more bacon from the pile between them, and finally, finally, Gadget answers, "Yeah. Crispy."

Thank Chaos Gadget didn't rib Finn for asking such a dumb question. Though, to be fair, Gadget looks far more interested in falling over than ribbing. Finn wonders how he's still awake.

Finn nibbles at the strip perched between his fingers, and he waits. Gadget doesn't continue. Instead, they do another round of their dance: Gadget crams, chews, chokes down the bacon, while Finn grabs another strip from the pile with stiff, robotic movements.

"Mom taught you to fry it?" Finn asks, when Gadget's reaches for strips without speaking again.

A pause in Gadget's reach. Then, "Not mom." Gadget's quick to stuff his mouth with the pork.

They go another round, Gadget eating, Finn waiting. "Mom hates it," Gadget says, at last. Finn sees his fingers twitch in the general direction of the pile between them, but for once Gadget breaks their cycle, speaking twice rather than once. "I think it tastes good, though."

Finn hums, and then he keeps watching, observing, waiting for a chance to broach the main issue – Gadget's poor sleep – only the chance never comes. Finn simply watches Gadget's head dip and nod, jerking upright occasionally, and then there's one time when Gadget dips especially low, chin to his sternum, and Finn knows Gadget will bite his tongue if he jerks up again. Finn wants to drag Gadget back to bed, lay there beside Gadget and hope they both fall asleep, but speaking now, full volume, apropos of nothing might startle him.

Gadget's head dips again, which finally prompts Finn to ask, light and quiet, "Wanna head back?"

Gadget shakes his head no, a slow, careful side to side. Finn sees how Gadget's eyes beg the opposite, how his limbs hang low and heavy and how he sways in his chair, and Finn is sure Gadget could just sleep now, in the chair, upright and bacon in his hands, if he really wanted to.

"Why not?" Finn asks.

"Dumb dream," Gadget repeats from earlier, mumbled towards the bacon on the plate between them instead of at Finn.

And maybe Finn asks because he's too tired for tact, but he goes ahead and he asks, "Why dumb?"

Gadget answers with a question of his own. "Who gets upset over a dream about bacon?"


End file.
